


Night Plague: The Beast Awakens

by Omnitrix_12



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula - Bram Stoker, Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Crucifix, Dracula Influence/References, F/M, Gen, Horror, Movie: The Batman vs. Dracula, Nightmare, Shapeshifting, Theology, Undead, Vampires, Werewolves, cleric - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23484031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnitrix_12/pseuds/Omnitrix_12
Summary: It's the 1890s, and when Nicholas Wilde departs to Romania on a business trip everything seems to be normal. His trip, however, is not so innocent as he supposes. He had been chosen by a force of evil such as the world has never seen, and soon the city and mammals he loves will be the target of an unspeakable horror. Will he and his friends be able to stop it and save the world from the Night Plague?Some relationships not tagged to avoid spoilers.Also, please make comments relevant to the story. Side notes about things like pairings are funny in moderation, but please.
Relationships: Arthur Holmwood/Lucy Westenra
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter I Part I: Friends in Strange Places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WANMWAD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WANMWAD/gifts).



Mammals rushed to and fro about the platform, loading bags and trunks onto a massive black behemoth of a train. Gargantuan creatures from Africa carted parcels bigger than many of the passengers as those same passengers, clutching smaller burdens close to their chests, dashed to and fro among the moving feet wherever an opening presented itself.

Tucked against a wall, well out of the way, two considerably shorter specimens stood observing the goings-on.

“Hey, Carrots,” teased the taller, a red fox clad in a suit of dapper yet simple style. “Not every day you see an elephant with _three_ trunks.”

A passing pachyderm, catching the jest, threw the fox an unpleasant glance. He bore at that moment two large chests of wood with metal binding; one grasped in his trunk and one between his tremendous forelimbs. He seemed to consider dropping one of them as close to the fox as he might get away with, but an apologetic wave from the shorter mammal – a trim and charming female rabbit – persuaded him to only roll his eyes and go about his business.

“You'd better stop doing that,” the rabbit chided the fox as the elephant left. “You won't have me around to make up for your exceptional manners.”

The fox – Nicholas Wilde – smiled and patted the doe between her ears. “Okay, Carrots. I'll be careful.”

She swatted his paw away. “I've told you not to call me that in public,” she hissed. Genuine though her annoyance was, but there was a twist at the corner of her mouth that revealed some enjoyment beneath the annoyance. “Out here it's Judy.”

“Of course you've told me that,” he smirked. “That's why it's so much fun to call you-”

She stepped on his foot. “A- _hem,_ ” she grumbled, irritation slowly gaining the upper hand over amusement.

“Fine, fine,” he laughed, pulling away the offended part. “I'll be careful, _Juu-dithh_.” He made an exaggerated face at the deliberate over-enunciation, forcing Judy to raise a pawkerchief to her mouth to stifle her laughter. A few passers-by glanced at their repartee, but none made any remark.

“I still wish I was going with you,” Judy admitted. “My grandpa went to Romeownia once. He said it's one of the loveliest places in Zoorope, and it sounds like a great place for ideas.”

Nicholas nodded, smiling cavalierly. He employed Judy as his secretary and all-around assistant, though she often sassed him in ways even the servant girl in ‘ _The Imaginary Invalid’_ wouldn’t dare try. Her true ambition, however, was to be a writer; a dream inspired by the influence of Harriet Beecher Doe’s Uncle Tom’s Cowbin. She had all the makings for it too: energy, high ideals, creativity to express them, and an utter lack of the usual feminine tact when it came to speaking her mind. All she lacked was a starting point.

Thinking about Judy’s perspective, the fox drew a fob watch from his pocket. “Yeah, well, if this job pays well then maybe I can buy you a ticket there. It’ll be nice to have some peace and quiet around the office.”

He nimbly flicked his tail away from her swiftly descending foot. For propriety’s sake she refrained from making a second attempt, besides forebearing in honor of the occasion. She _had_ been on his case to make sure he was all set for this trip, but it was a big deal. Being a fox, it was tough for Nick to compete in the business world, and would be all the more so once he began his own firm. Most of the time it took all his shrewdness just to win half a chance at making an honest living, and more than once Judy had been pressed to urge him away from stooping to criminal measures just to keep his business running.

Now he had been commissioned by a nobleman, and from another _country_ at that. Someone had summoned him to the eastern border of a small country in the Catpathian Mountain region, there to meet the noblemammal who had hired him and settle the sale of some property in London. Such a trip promised to be most lucrative, particularly as the count – for such was his title – was clearly a generous and open-handed gentlemammal. In his correspondence, he had promised to arrange all of Nick's traveling and lodging at his own expense for as long as the fox remained in his country. With such a significant assignment, Judy wanted to make sure he was absolutely sorted.

Besides, dictating his every assignment – packing, traveling arrangements, brushing up on the local dialects, and so on – helped her not to wonder why this trip made her so _nervous._ She couldn’t explain it for the life of her, but ever since he got the correspondence about this case, something deep in her gut had been bothering her.

The train whistle blew, and the conductor – a bull elk with a deep, throaty voice – boomed out, “All aboooaaaarrrdd!”

Nick smiled and raised a paw over her head, which she dodged. “I'll tell you all about it when I get back,” he promised, laughing. Then he made for the nearest set of steps in his size range onto the train.

“Write it down!” Judy called after him, cupping her paws to her mouth to be heard over the rising volume of foot traffic. “I want to know everything!”

He turned, waving calmly. “Okay! You're the boss!”

She did her best not to be unsettled as the train took Nick off to parts distant and exotic. He'd come back a richer mammal with wonderful experiences to relate.

So why was she so anxious?

* * *

Two days of train travel with brief stop-overs put Nick in Batstritz, journaling as he went. He had not been blind to his aide's concern about the trip, but he did think pretty lightly of the matter (bunnies were, after all, prone to be emotional). The way into Romeownia could hardly have been more picturesque, and parts of it – such as the abrupt shift from a western-style bridge over the Danube to starkly Turkish culture on the other side – were very interesting if one were at all interested in traditions. He noted these details in shorthand for Judy's later enjoyment, and amused himself also by noting trivial minutae like what he had for breakfast and dinner at various places: Paprika hendl, imletata, and mamaliga. He even went so far as to get the recipes for some of the dishes. He dared to guess that some of it would be useful in Judy’s writing, but she had often made it clear that she wanted to write about things less domestic; to get outside the areas where society expected females – especially of small prey species – to remain. So of course he _had_ to dwell on those for a lark.

During one of his less contrary moods, he wrote, ' _As fun as it is to annoy you with all these details, I guess I should thank you for convincing me to read up on Transylvania at the British Museum while I was in London. I'm sure it'll come in handy dealing with a local nobleman, after all. As I told you back in England but will tell you again now, he's called me to the far east side of the country, right near where it borders on Mole-davia and Buckovina, smack in the middle of the Catpathian Mountains. It's a pretty wild country; one of the least-known parts of Zoorope. None of the maps in the museum library told me exactly where to find the castle, though. I guess no one ever told them how important it is to have a good Ordnance Survey Map (you can hear my sarcasm, right?). I did, however, find Batstritz, which my client mentioned as a post town in his letters. It's pretty well-known, so I should be able to find it without much fuss.'_

* * *

The places he passed through were not as varied in their biodiversity as Zootopia, but the locals had a charm about them one just couldn't get tired of. They came in four basic groups, each living in their own respective communities though they mingled and did business together freely enough in other respects. To the south lived tribes of Saxon horses, mixed in with Woolachs who were comprised of goats, sheeps, and – in a truly strange alliance – wolves who seemed to trade security services for some measure of authority. It was, he dared to guess, a system about which Judy would have had some choice remarks, but he made it a rule not to stick his nose in where it wouldn't be welcome. West largely belonged to the Magyowls, a tribe of Podolian cattle with some beech martens and polecats. In the East and the North – where he was going, lived the Snarlzelkelys. They were, by far, the most exotic group to be found in the region. Local tradition named them as scions of the Huns, and their species makeup seemed to fit the boast. Though one or two local species – deer, wolves, and some rabbits – had mingled into their number, the better part of them came of ancient lines of swift horses, majestic tigers, and hoary-headed musk oxen.

With such ancient bloodlines and settlements thereabout, it was small wonder that, as Nick had read, every known superstition in the world was gathered there. It was, as he put it in his journal, 'like some kind of whirlpool of imagination.' ' _I should ask the Count about it,'_ he penned. _'Ought to make for some fun conversation.'_

* * *

“What is it with wolves and the howling?” Nick complained on his first night there as a nocturnal chorus shattered his rest. He shifted back and forth, trying to sink deeper into the mattress as he folded the pillow over his head.

“You know,” he called as if the pests could hear him, “this bed would be _really_ comfortable if I could actually _sleep_ in it.”

Even without the wolves, he had to get up several times to relieve himself during the night. The paprika hendl had been a very thirsty dish, compelling him to drink all of the water in his carafe at dinner and still want more. At some hour around three he slept at last, the howling still in his ears to make him dream about train whistles and the winds pouring through the Canyon District back in Zootopia.

The next day’s train journey found him writing again, relating the events of the night before. ‘ _I asked the innkeeper about it,’_ he recorded, ‘ _over a breakfast of more paprika, eggplant stuffed with forcemeat (they call it imletata) and a maize flour porridge called mamaliga which you’d probably like. I think my German must not be as good as I thought, because it sounded like he tried to tell me that the wolves were howling to scare off evil spirits – or maybe appease them or some such nonsense. Anyway, I didn’t have enough time to check what he was saying or to really enjoy my breakfast, which I guess I can blame on the howling. They had to knock pretty loud and long to wake me up (I guess I did sleep soundly towards the end), and then I had to rush to get to the train station on time. Go figure: the train was late heading out. It was supposed to leave a bit before eight, but after I rushed in at 7:30 I sat on board more than an hour before the thing moved. What is it with these trains anyway? The further east I get, the later they are. Heaven help me if I ever have to take one in China.’_

Despite his dissatisfaction at the night he had passed, Nicholas did at least enjoy the view when he wasn’t napping to reclaim the night’s lost rest. The countryside was adorned liberally with little towns, castles on steep hills like something in an old missal, and rivers and streams whose wide, stony margins bespoke of frequent flooding. The stations where the train stopped were excellent for mammal-watching, with groups and sometimes whole crowds in every species and mode of dress the region had to offer. Some looked just like the peasants of France and Germany, with short jackets, round hats, and home-made trousers.

Others were of greater interest. There were a number of females who were pretty at a distance, but on the chubby side and not particularly attractive at closer accquaintance. They all had full white sleeves, and most of them wore big belts with strips of something hanging from them like the dresses in a ballet he had seen the previous year (of course, they had petticoats underneath). His eyes – even as much as they had seen – nearly popped out of his head, though, when he saw the Slothvaks. They were larger than bears and wore big, wide-brimmed hats, baggy dirty-white trousers, white shirts, and huge lizard-skin belts studded with brass nails. Nick, noting that their belts must come from monitor lizards or crocodilians to be so large, wrote, ‘ _Their boots are almost knee-high, and they wear their hair and mustaches so long that I'll bet they're a scream to watch eating soup. If I saw them on stage I'd take them for some kind of bandits from the east, though I'm told they're harmless and even a bit shy.’_

It was evening when he arrived in Batstritz, but though the light in the west was starting to fade he judged that there was time enough to walk around and see his surroundings. He noticed at once that the locals cultivated a number of roses, and wild ones seemed much more prevalent than usual just outside the settlement. The air was laden with their perfume wherever he went, mingled here and there with herbs hung from the windows or grown in little gardens.

As the twilight deepened, Nick began to look for someone who could tell him the way to the Golden Krone hotel, to which the count’s letters had directed him. After one or two failed attempts to catch mammals too deep in conversation to notice him, he caught the attention of a passing stallion who carried several rose cuttings.

‘ _Wonder what he wants with that many, especially around here,’_ Nick wondered. “Uh, excuse me, sir,” he asked in his best German. “Which way is it to the Golden Krone?”

The stallion looked around, apparently unused to mammals Nick’s size.

“Down here,” the fox added, a little annoyed.

The horse looked down and blinked. “Oh, sorry. You were asking about the…?”

“Golden Krone,” Nick repeated slowly and clearly. Evidently he needed to work more on his local dialects.

“Oh, yes,” the horse replied, transferring the cuttings to one arm and pointing down the street. “Go three houses down, turn left, and it should be right in plain sight. You’ll know it by the symbol.”

Nick dipped his head. “Thank you.” Glancing around, he added conversationally, “You get much excitement around here?”

The stallion shrugged. “Oh, we get our share,” he replied, gesturing with a hoof in the direction of Boargo Pass. “We’re right on the border with Buckovina, you know.”

“Trouble with the neighbors, huh?”

“Oh, not so much nowadays, but it happens. About fifty years ago we had, oh…” he looked at one of his hooves as if counting on it – obviously purely by social convention – and then shook his head. “Five pretty bad brushes with fire.”

Nick could sympathize. Fires were a pretty serious concern in Zootopia, and it looked as if the buildings here contained a lot more wood. “And you think that’s because of trouble with Buckovina?” he asked.

“Well, that not so much. But my grandfather told me that back… oh, around the start of the seventeenth century, we lost thirteen thousand mammals in only three weeks. War, famine, and sickness took them during a siege.”

The fox shook his head, trying not to show how much that thought impacted him. ‘ _Thirteen_ thousand _in three weeks?’_ “Well,” he said, “I’ve gotta hand it to you; you folks have guts living here.” In an effort to lighten the mood, he added, “With all those deaths, it’s no wonder you’ve got so many spooks in the neighborhood.”

The horse chuckled and shook his head. “Oh, are you of that frame of mind?”

“No sir, not me,” Nick assured him. “But I did hear that this place is pretty thick in the superstition department.”

“Well, yes,” the horse admitted. “Every time a child wanders off around here, there’s talk of _strigoita_ and whatnot. I don’t take it so seriously myself, but my wife, now, _she_ swears on the Testament to every bit of it. That’s why I was out collecting these. They’re supposed to keep devils away.” He chuckled.

Nick laughed too. “Well, thanks. Three houses down and a left?”

“Right. I mean yes, left.”

“Thanks. Watch out for the strigoita!”

They shared a chuckle, oblivious as several passers-by crossed themselves and stared in shock and disapproval.

* * *

The Golden Krone proved to be thoroughly old-fashioned; the sort of place he imagined Judy might well choose as a mystery setting. A cheery-looking elderly red deer doe met him at the door with the air of someone waiting on an honored guest. When he got close, she bowed. “The Herr Englishmammal?” she inquired.

Nick nodded, putting on his most winsome smile. “That’s me alright. Nicholas Wilde, at your service.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” she replied. “We and our house are at yours. Welcome.” She turned to an old stag in white shirt-sleeves who had followed her to the door, and whispered something in his ear. He went, but returned immediately with a letter:

_My Friend,_

_Welcome to the Catpathians. I am anxiously expecting you. Sleep well tonight, and at three to-morrow take the diligence for Buckovina. A place on it will be kept for you. At the Boargo pass, my carriage will await you and bring you to me. I trust, of course, that your journey from Zootopia has been a pleasant one, and that you will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land._

_Your Friend,_

_DRACULA_


	2. Chapter I Part II: A Trail of Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Nick continues on his errand, strange things begin to mount all around him. Why is everyone so afraid of his errand? What won't they tell him? Is there some danger afoot from his imminent host, the Count?

NICK WILDE'S JOURNAL

(Kept in shorthand.)

Leaving on a better schedule than we got there (we being me and the train), it was after dark when we got to Clawsenburgh. I spent the night at the Hotel Royale and dined on chicken done up with red pepper; very good, but thirsty. You won't want any, of course, but I got the recipe because you wanted “to know everything.” The waiter called it “Paprika hendl,” and it's a national dish around here. I'm glad I took the time to learn a little German; even my roguish charm wouldn't get me very far in these parts without it.

May 4th. Things are getting a lit-tle weird in Transylvania. The hotel manager got a letter from the Count, telling him to save me the best place on the coach, but when I asked about it he tried to dodge. He pretended not to understand my German, even though up to then he understood it just fine. He and his wife, the woman who met me at the door, kept giving each other this _look._ All he would tell me was that the money for my ride had been sent with the letter and that was all he knew. They both obviously knew _something_ else, but when I asked about Count Dracula or the castle where he lived, both of the couple just crossed themselves and said they knew nothing at all (likely story). I didn't have time to ask anyone else, and it all struck me as a big mystery – and not a fun one, either.

Just before I left, the old lady came up to my room and seemed to have cracked in more ways than one. “Must you go, young Herr?!” she cried, white in the face. At least I think that's what she said. She was so agitated that she mixed some other language in with her German, and I had the hardest time getting anything clear from her. I finally told her that I had to go because I was on important business, and her tongue came unglued.

“Don't you know what day it is?!” she cried. “It is May Fourth, the eve of Saint George's Day! At midnight tonight, the powers of evil will be at their height! Don't you know where you are going, on tonight of all nights?! Don't you know what you will find there?” She was sobbing openly now, begging me on her knees not to go or to at least wait a day or two before I went. I tried to comfort her, but I couldn't do what she asked. Part of me wished I could. The whole thing was nuts, and yet something in my gut wanted to stay – at least so she'd stop crying, anyway.

“Listen,” I said, trying to make her get up, “I appreciate the thought, but I'm on a schedule here. Business is business, right?”

She got up and dried her eyes, then took a crucifix from around her neck and pressed it into my paws. I was reluctant; I'm not exactly devout, but I think crucifixes are kind of like idols. On the other paw, she was so upset and obviously worried about me. She must have guessed I wasn't sure what to do, because she gripped my paws more tightly around it and said, “Take it. For your mother's sake, take it.” I couldn't say no to that, so I took it and promised to put it on a shorter string that would fit my neck.

I'm waiting for the coach now, which is late. Am I surprised by that? No; no I am not. I've put the little crucifix on a bit of string I had in my pocket, so it's around my neck now. Maybe it's the crucifix, or the old woman, or just the general superstition around here, but I'm not feeling like my usual cocky self – and you know how hard it is to rattle me.

Ah, finally. Here comes the coach. Bye for now, Carrots.

~

5 May. Things are just getting weirder all the time, and I guess I might as well write since I can’t seem to fall asleep. I’d think I just dined too well before I left Batstritz, but I’m sure there was more to it. Besides, all I had was a couple of glasses of Golden Mediasch and something they call “robber steak,” which they make by stringing pieces of poultry, onion, and reptile meat on sticks, seasoning it with red pepper, and roasting it over a fire. (Note to self: get a couple of bottles of the Golden Mediasch on the return trip).

Anyway, I’m sure it wasn’t the food. When I got on the coach the horses hadn’t taken their spots yet, and I saw them talking with the landlady. She must have still been worried about me, because they kept glancing over to me all the time. I didn’t understand what they said, but a bunch of mammals sitting on the bench outside the door must have. They kept giving me pitying looks, but what bugged me most were the words they tossed around. I looked up a few of them in my polyglot dictionary, but they didn’t make any sense. "Ordog"—Satan, "pokol"—hell, "stregoica"—witch, and lastly "vrolok" and "vlkoslak"—both of which are about something that might be a skin-changer or a vampire. I’ll have to ask the Count about some of these superstitions.

Speaking of superstitions, I noticed something else weird. Pretty much everyone talking about me crossed themselves and pointed two fingers at me. Finally I got one of the other passengers to explain, but only after I had told him I was English would he say it was a charm against the evil eye. I’m not sure if they thought I was going to give it to them or that someone might give it to me, but either way it left a pretty bad knot in my stomach. I actually thought about abandoning my errand, leaving off this trip to a strange place to meet a strange man. I think the main thing that stopped me was knowing I’d given my word on the arrangement, not to mention that there was a lot of money riding on the sale. Besides, I knew I’d never hear the last of it from you, so that was that.

The one thing that did help to ease things was that everyone was so… well, nice. I guess they think better of foxes out here, or maybe they were just so worried that they didn’t care what I happened to be. Either way, it was pretty touching. I’ll always remember the sight, as we pulled away, of the inn’s yard so crowded with mammals like something in a picture, all crossing themselves around the wide archway. You would have liked the oleander and orange trees, which they grew in tubs clustered around the center of the yard.

* * *

If I’d had a better handle on the local jargon, I might have stayed uneasy for most of the ride. As it was, though, the scenes were too nice outside to hold onto ghostly frights, and I soon got to enjoying the sloping hills, the rich trees and occasional farmhouses, and everywhere the smell of growth. You know I like the city, but I’ve got to admit, the smells of fruit blossoms – apple, plum, pear, and cherry – wafting in the window were so tempting that I had half a mind to look out for any ‘For Sale’ signs. Even the road we traveled seemed to lose itself in what locals called “the Mittel Land,” disappearing in either direction around hills or into straggling ends of pine woods that stuck out here and there like tongues of flame. The road was a bit bumpy, but we seemed to go at a fast clip. When I asked, the other passengers explained – pretty hesitantly, I noticed – that the horses wanted to reach Bogo Prund as soon as possible. They also said that the road was usually better in summer, but it hadn’t yet been fixed up after the winter snows. I remarked that this must be a pretty cozy area, then, since I remembered as they were telling me this that they don’t usually fix up their roads too nicely at all. (The Turks might think they were calling in outside troops and decide to get in a few shots first.) They nodded as I mentioned it, and I guessed their nervousness must be from how fast the driver was going.

Green hills soon changed to steep, forested paths, then the lofty slopes of the Catpathians themselves. You would have loved it; the autumn sun bringing out deep blue and purple in the peaks’ shadows, with the green and brown of rock mingled in and jagged peaks reaching into the snowy distance. Darn it, maybe I should have become a painter instead of a salesmammal. Nah; I wouldn’t have had the patience.

As we rolled around the base of a hill, one of my companions touched my arm and pointed to a high snowy peak straight ahead as the crow flew.

"Look!” he cried, “Isten szek!" He crossed himself reverently, and I found out later that “Isten szek” meant “God’s seat.”

The day skimmmed by like that as the sun sank lower. Shadows of evening crept around us despite the delicate cool pink glow of snow caps that still held the sunset. As we kept going I got an uneasy sense from the surroundings which I realized had at least a bit to do with all the crosses and shrines, and the way the other passengers kept crossing themselves every time we passed one. Even though it was getting late a lot of peasants were still out and about the countryside, kneeling by the shrines and praying so hard they didn’t even twitch when we passed. I asked one of my companions, but all I could make out was that ‘the dragon’ had other plans that night.

The air got colder as we kept going on and the light kept going down, until the trees seemed to merge into one gloomy hedge all around us. Even my eyes had trouble with the deep shadows, and I noticed the horses pulling our wagon kept stumbling as if even they weren’t sure about the path. Mist crept in, and everything started feeling strange and solemn so I kept thinking of the grim fantasies that had come up earlier in the evening. I almost thought I saw spirits in the clouds which, up in the Catpathians, never quite seem to dissipate.

When I found myself looking at the odd dark firs sticking like spikes in the lingering snow, and remembering stories of a ruler in older days who loved skewering his enemies on wood posts, I shook myself and hunched deeper into my coat.

When the horses stopped to light the lamps, I cleared my throat.

“It’s pretty steep up ahead,” I pointed out. “Maybe I should get out and walk a bit? Less for you to drag around.”

The lead horse looked at me in alarm, then shook his head. “No, mein Herr,” he answered. “You must not walk here. The going is… treacherous.”

I shrugged and made myself comfortable again, though I’d been hoping for the chance to wake up a bit and shake off my nightmares.

The way one of the others said my host was treacherous too didn’t help.

The darker it got, the more the other passengers jostled and chattered. One after another after another they urged the horses to pull us faster, and when I told them to calm down they swore at me. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what they were saying in all the chaos. Then through the darkness I started seeing a soft patch of gray light up the road, like there was a gap in the hills or something. The passengers got antsier, the coach rocked on its springs, and we swayed like a boat tossed on a stormy sea. I hung onto my seat like it was about to throw me off, and even when the road leveled out we only went faster. Then the mountains pinched around us, looming over like angry giants, and I knew we were in Boargo Pass.

As we got to the pass the other riders seemed to change their minds about me. The same mammals who had been swearing at me earlier started babbling out apologies and pressing gifts on me; roses, cloves of garlic, trinkets. It was like the outside of the inn all over again, with the same kindly words, good faith, and mammals crossing themselves like there was no tomorrow. Then there was the way they kept looking out of the coach; craning warily, pulling back all tired, and sometimes seeming to argue in some local jargon about whose turn it was to look next. Even the horses, when I could see them in the fog, seemed to be watching for God-knew-what. I asked around, but no one would tell me anything.

When the pass opened up ahead we saw dark, rolling clouds. I could feel and smell the hints of a thunderstorm, even in that cold, and wondered how it had come up so suddenly. It was like the mountain range was some kind of weather wall. I still didn’t know what the others were watching for, but I realized this was the time to look for my next conveyance. I strained to see through the fog, expecting all the time to see the glare of lamps, but nothing. The only light anywhere in sight was our own flickering lanterns, in which the steam from our horses rose like clouds. Finally the fog started to part and we could see the sandy white road ahead of us, but still no one. The other passengers drew back and sighed as if that was good news, and I could see the lead horse checking his pocket watch.

“An hour less than the time,” he murmured, so low even I could hardly hear it – and not to brag, but you know how good _my_ ears are. I wondered if they had tricked me, though. If we were an hour early, why had we just about broken our necks trying to get here so darn fast – and what were we supposed to do now? Sit out in the cold?

One of the horses in the back turned to us and spoke in German worse than mine. “There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He will now come on to Bukovina, and return to-morrow or the next day; better the next DAY-HEE-HEE-AAAAHHHHH!”

His words broke into a startled neigh as the lead horse jumped like someone had stuck a hot poker to his flank, jarring the whole team. All of them began to jostle, and the other mammals in the coach started crossing themselves like they’d all gone crazy as a calèche, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach.

I couldn’t help staring at the driver of the other coach. Most horses required no driver, but this carriage had someone perched on a seat up top as if to give orders. I’d heard of setups like that in countries where mammals still might own other mammals, or sometimes partnerships if the horse had some kind of visual problem. I’d even known a mouse who used to ride in a blind horse’s hat as his eyes, but this guy was no mouse.

Even hunched on top of the carriage he looked to be at least bear-sized, and so black I couldn’t make out anything about him except a hat – which seemed to cover his face – and a pair of _really_ bright eyes that I could swear briefly glinted red in the lamps. He spoke to the team pulling us in a low, accusing tone.

“You are early tonight, my friend.”

I could actually _hear_ the horses in front of our coach shaking, and one of them finally managed to say, “The English Herr was in a hurry.”

The stranger snorted. “I suppose that is why you wanted him to go on to Buckovina,” he countered. “You cannot deceive me, my friend. I know too much, and my… master’s horses are swift.”

As he spoke, a glint of lamplight fell on his smile and showed up the obvious teeth of a predator, white as ivory and rimmed by bright red lips.

“Denn die Todten reiten schnell,” whispered one of my companions to another. I recognized it as a line from Boarger’s ‘Lenore’; “For the dead travel fast.”

The strange driver must have heard the words, because he looked up with a gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and crossing himself.

“What gives?” I asked quietly, but the badger who had spoken would only shake his head and say nothing. I got a distinct feeling from his eyes, though, that he wished I’d never come.

Of course, now was way too late for that.

“Give me the Herr’s luggage,” called the driver, and as if the bags had caught fire those nearest them quickly picked them up and passed them over to the calèche, which was parked so close by that it was easy to hand them across the gap and in the window. I realized that the horses pulling the coach – and the strange mammal guiding them – were either very skilled or very reckless.

Then it was my turn to cross over. I climbed to the window and stumbled going across, but the driver caught me in a paw like iron and lifted me to the window. Guy must have had muscles like an elephant. Then with a command from him, the horses under his command turned and swept into the darkness of the pass. I looked out the back and saw the other horses – still steaming – and the figures of my late companions crossing themselves.

We paused a short distance away, and I felt a strange chill, and a lonely feeling came over me. Then a cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees. I jumped a little, since I hadn’t even heard the driver get down and suddenly he was right there outside the door. I still couldn’t make anything out except that the guy smelled of old dirt. His German was great, though, and he talked like a gentlemammal.

“The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade me take all care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz underneath the seat, if you should require it.”

I didn’t take any of the plum brandy he’d mentioned, but it was nice to know it was there anyway. To be honest, I was still pretty nervous about the trip and beginning to think that if there was a way out of it I’d have jumped at the chance. The guy had great manners, but I’d been in Zootopia too long to trust that too much. He reminded me of a shrew who would exchange family pleasantries in one breath and then knife you in the next. The coach started moving, though, killing any slim chance I might have had of bailing out.

With nothing else to do and nothing to make out in the dark outside, I started trying to guess where we were by the movements of the cart. After a while I noticed we kept taking straight roads and then hard turns, as if we were going over and over the same patch of ground. That got me really uneasy, since I knew kidnappers sometimes did tricks like that to confuse their prisoners. Then again, maybe he was just trying to make it seem like… wait, no. Dracula had written the note, hadn’t he? Even if the driver and horses were in some kind of agreement to overcharge their boss – a game I’d known some cab horses in Zootopia to pull – he should know how long it would take them to pick me up and get back. Then again, he might be the type who never left his house if he could avoid it, and Boargo Pass could be halfway across Europe for all he knew.

I shook off the question and struck a match to check my watch.

 _Few minutes to midnight,_ I thought, the realization somehow scaring me all over again. I didn’t know why and still don’t, unless the local superstition had messed with my head. The more I think about it, the more that makes sense, although some of what happened later would have been a bit much even if I’d had the brandy.

Somewhere in a farmhouse way down the road I heard a wolf howl; long and agonized, as if he were howling in fear or had stepped on the mother of all rusty nails. My unease turned to annoyance when – of course – another started up, and another. The way the wind carried it around, you would have thought every wolf in the world was howling out there in the fog. The horses shifted and whinnied, and one of them broke off and ran away. I could hear the driver shouting for him, but he didn’t come back. Then another howling began, like I’d never heard even wolves howl. It was louder, sharper, and made he want to jump out of the carriage and run. The only thing that stopped me was that I had no idea where I was or where they were, and whatever insanity had them I wasn’t interested in dropping in on them for a chat. The horses, meanwhile, seemed to be thinking about joining their friend, but at that moment a terrified whinny in the distance made them freeze.

“Calm yourselves,” said the driver patiently. “You see, he has hurt himself. Nothing we can do for him.”

He kept talking so smoothly and patiently that even I began to feel calmer, and then did that silent descent thing from before to stand next to them.

“Peace, my friends. They will not bother you, eh? Not as long as you are with me. I’ll see to the other later, if anything can be done for him.”

The horses calmed down, though I could still see them shaking. Before it occurred to me to get a good look at the driver he was back up on his seat with amazing agility for someone so big, and off we went. This time, after going to the far side of the pass, we suddenly turned down a narrow roadway running sharply left.

It wasn’t long before the trees did their looming over thing again, until it felt like we were driving through some kind of tunnel. I didn’t feel a whole lot of wind, but it must have been going crazy higher up. I could hear it rising, moaning and whistling through the rocks, and smacking branches together overhead. Now and then the trees would dump a load of white, which tipped me off that it was snowing again. The howling of the scared wolves slowly faded, while the other howl seemed to come from all around us, closer on every side. I would have been pretty freaked out, but the driver kept talking in such a calm, careless way that I figured there was nothing to worry about. Maybe it was just some weird holiday for them, although why the ones behind us didn’t share it was more than I could guess.

I noticed that the driver seemed to be looking off on either side of the road, and I started trying to look myself, dark as it was. Suddenly I saw this blue flame off on the left, so faint that I couldn’t make out anything by its light but itself. The driver saw it right when I did, stopped the horses, and jumped to the ground. I didn’t know what to do, especially when the howling came closer, but he was back before I knew it and on we went. I kept looking from him to the flame and back again, but it all made no more sense than some weird dream. I’m almost sure it was a dream, since it kept repeating over and over. You might use it in a thriller sometime, so I wish I could tell you more. The only time it was close enough to make anything out, though, all I could tell was that he piled up some rocks in a weird sign or something where the flame stood. I rubbed my eyes – which is the only reason I question if it was a dream – when he walked between me and the flame and it was like he hadn’t. I was sure I saw him, between me and the flame, but I saw the flame _through_ him as if he was a sooty window or something. Maybe I woke up after that, because there were no blue flames for a while and we kept going. Despite the driver’s promises, the wolves still howled around us like they were moving along with us. Then even that stopped, but I was still rattled enough that it was impossible to sleep – especially after what came next.

The next time the driver got down he was gone longer than I expected, and the horses suddenly started panicking. I expected them to run, but then the moon came out and I saw why they didn’t.

There, all around us in the new-fallen snow, stood a ring of wolves not ten feet away. These weren’t like the peasants back in the villages. They wore hardly anything on their lean, shaggy bodies and stared silently at us like they were out of their minds. None of them made a sound, but their white teeth and lolling red tongues were worse than the howling, as bad as that had been. It was just grim silence like they were waiting on some kind of signal.

Somehow I remembered that the driver had said the wolves wouldn’t bother us if he was around. How the heck that could work with these guys I didn’t know, but I was freaked out enough to try anything.

“Hey! Hey, driver! Little help!” I beat the side of the calèche, hoping to scare the wolves and give him an opening. Stupid, I know. Then, crazy as it seemed, there he was. He must have come up behind the coach, but the first thing I saw he was standing in the road in front of us. Almost before I even saw that anything was there he threw back his head and roared.

It was literally like nothing I’ve ever heard before; like at least ten different animals – tiger, bear, wolf, buffalo, and others I couldn’t even think of – all bellowing together in one throat. The noise was so stunning I fell back in my seat, but I could still hear him; now yelling at the wolves like a stage director chewing out bad actors. I climbed back up and saw him waving his arms as if he were brushing them aside. It almost seemed like he was when, at every sweep, they drew further and further back. I was too freaked out to know what to think when a cloud came over the moon, but when it came back, the wolves were gone.

I don’t mind telling you, I was scared out of my wits. “What the heck was that?” I asked, staring around in terror. I was almost twice as scared when the driver turned toward me, and even though I couldn’t see his face any clearer than before his eyes burned like Hell.

“Stay inside,” he said simply, getting back up to his post.

The rest of the way seemed even darker, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I hunkered down with my coat bunched around me, wishing I’d never come and waiting for the ride to be over. It seemed like forever before we stopped, and I waited a long time for something to happen. I almost screamed when the door opened and a rich, genial voicevery different from the driver’s called out, “Welcome to my house! Enter freely, and of your own free will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of difficulty with this chapter, in as much as Bram Stoker had a very visual and rather poetic style of description whereas Nick, I felt, would be much less elaborate. I also struggled with a plot hole I had overlooked before: namely, why people already in the veritable shadow of Dracula’s castle, presumably from villages on which he preyed every night, would go one step further and linger outside in the dusk. I chalk it up on Stoker’s part to a desire to build mounting tension with the imagery of feeble peasants trying to keep the dark lord at bay amid crosses likely erected where his past victims were found. For my part, I took it a step further to have their prayers specifically directed toward Nick, supposing that they had less need of safety since the Count would be focused on him that night instead.  
> One other difficulty I had was how wolves – and horses for that matter – might interact with Dracula. In the novel, of course, wolves were his pets even when they feared him (interestingly, it seems it was Stoker who invented the idea of fear or enmity between vampires and wolves, were or otherwise), and horses all but invariably feared him. I’m leaning towards the idea that some pockets of wolves, living like the man among the tombs described in the Bible, might be acolytes or else helpless thralls of Dracula. I have some real parallels for this, since there are at least two cases I know of in recent history where an individual or even a community managed to live off the grid, avoiding pursuits that would impress Sherlock Holmes. Uncannily, one such case presented such animalistic behavior that some thought he was actually a werewolf or something of the kind, though all evidence I know of suggests he was in fact only a man with tragic mental damage from the military.


	3. Chapter I Part III: The Children of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Nick Wilde settles into his temporary lodgings at the castle, he soon becomes fast friends with his singular host. Something's very odd, however, and this count has many secrets to conceal.

“ **Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make.”**

**Dracula**

The mammal who opened the door for me was like no one I’d ever seen or imagined. He was built like a tiger – and an extra large one at that – but he had fur more like one of the black jaguars or leopards you’ve seen; the kind called panthers. His whiskers were long and hung down in notable gray strands, reminiscent of a Boariental sage. His suit was completely black and white, so the only speck of color anywhere on him came from his eyes. Those were yellow, with a curious red tinge in the irises. He held an antique lantern in one paw with an open flame that flickered and threw shadows all over. That was the only light anywhere except the moon, which was blocked by the jagged spires of broken battlements. Even my eyes couldn’t see any sign of light from the tall black windows, so that if I had come there unaware I would have thought the place was abandoned.

‘ _Must be hard to find good help in this neighborhood,’_ I couldn’t help thinking.

“Nicholas Wilde, I believe,” the big fellow greeted in a tone that just seemed to ripple right through me. He extended a paw which could have covered my whole face without even trying. I noticed his voice was much like that of the coachmammal, and as I shook his paw I had to inquire.

“Count Dracula-AAH?” I inquired, yelping in surprise as he took my paw in a vice-like grip and helped me out of the coach. Helped, I say, but he practically lifted me right out like I was one of the bags. The strength made me wince, but what really struck me was how cold his paw was; more like the paw of a dead mammal than someone alive. Letting go, he bowed in a courtly fashion.

“Count Dracula at your service, Mr. Wilde, and I bid you welcome to my house. Come freely, go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring!”

I shook my paw to make sure it was all in one piece, but tried not to be obvious about it. “Uh, thank you,” I managed.

He smiled then, and I caught a brief glimpse of some of the finest – and, honestly, most frightening – teeth I’d ever seen on any mammal. Then he quickly opened the door and waved me in.

“Come, come,” he urged eagerly. “The night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest.” As he spoke, he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, stepped out, and to my surprise took my luggage himself.

“Uh, sir, I can get those,” I protested, confused that a nobleman even this far out would be doing something like that.

He just smiled again. “Nonsense, sir. You are my guest. It is late, and my people are not available. Let me see to your comfort myself.”

I tell you, if his teeth weren’t so unsettling the guy could have charmed the scales off a cobra. I made another halfhearted protest for the sake of being a good guest, but there was no arguing with him. So I took the lamp and walked beside to light his wayalong the passage, then up a great winding stair, and along another great passage. He seemed to be in a bit of a rush, so I didn’t have time to notice much. I did notice that, like he had said, I saw no one and heard no sound but out own steps, which seemed to sound unusually loudly on the stone. At the end of the passage he threw open a heavy door, and I was almost blinded by light. When my eyes adjusted I was glad to see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper. A fireplace big enough to be a bear’s winter den stood at one sidewith a big log fire, all stacked with fresh logs and about the most welcoming sight I’d seen since crossing the border. As an added consideration, the chair just to the right of the table’s head was fox-sized and had a ladder built in so I could get up with no trouble.

The Count halted, closed the door, crossed the room, and opened another door. That one led into a small octagonal room lit by a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort. Passing through this, he opened another door and waved me cordially in. Almost as welcome as the supper table, this was a great bedroom, also well lit and set up with a nice fire.From beneath fresh logs it sent a hollow roar up the wide chimney. The Count himself left my luggage inside and bowed.

“You will, of course, wish to refresh yourself and make your toilet. I trust you will find all as you wish, and join me in the other room for supper when you are ready.”

I nodded and smiled as he withdrew. There were more oddities about this place than I could count, but Dracula’s courteous welcome, and the light and warmth of the place, made it impossible to think anything bad about the mammal. Now that I was back to a normal state of mind, his mention of supper reminded me that I was half-starved. I didn’t waste any time freshening and tidying up, and joined him in the other room.

I found the Count next to the fireplace, leaning against the stonework. He waved elegantly to the table. “I pray you, be seated and sup as you please. You will, I trust, excuse me that I do not join you, but I have dined already, and I do not sup.”

He didn’t have to ask twice, but first I handed him the sealed letter which Mr. Clawkins had entrusted to me. He opened it and read it gravely, but his businesslike look soon changed to a charming smile.

“An excellent fellow, your Mr. Clawkins,” he approved with a nod. Then his smile dropped several degrees, and when he spoke again he sounded concerned. “Oh, dear.”

“What?” I asked.

Still frowning, he turned the letter around and extended it to me. “He has a few things to say about you.”

Nervous and confused, I took the letter and scanned it for my name, then backtracked to the start of the paragraph. This is what I read:

“I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any traveling on my part for some time to come; but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every possible confidence. He is a young fox, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. I have watched him grown to manhood in my service, and trust you will find him discreet and a worthy credit to his or any other species. He shall be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters.”

Dracula’s rich chuckle made clear what I had just guessed myself. I know you’ll laugh, Carrots. I had to laugh myself. I’d played that trick or ones just like it on dozens of mammals, and now I’d been had myself. “Touche, sir. Touche.”

Dracula scrunched his face slightly. “Touche?” Then his expression cleared. “Ah, that is French. _Tre bien, monsier Wilde._ But come, come, you stand here hungry while we make pleasantries. Come and refresh yourself.”

The count himself walked me to the table and took the cover off the juiciest roast chicken I’d ever seen. The sight and smell made me ten times hungrier, and I fell to with hardly a pause to thank the mammal. That chicken, along with some cheese and two glasses of old Tokay, was my supper that night. While I ate, Dracula asked about my journey and drew out, by bits and pieces, everything I’d experienced since the train out of Zootopia. When I finished supper, he persuaded me to draw up a chair by the fire and smoke a cigar, excusing that he didn’t smoke himself.

Seen in better light, and with less distraction, I noted Dracula’s appearance to be quite unique, besides what I’d already noticed of course. His forehead had a lofty dome to it as if holding a brain too big for an average skull. His ears struck me as odd; whereas a tiger’s would usually be round, his were so pointed that I almost thought he might be part caracal, although wolf seemed more likely. His chin was broad and strong even for a tiger, and his cheeks were firm despite their thinness. I also noticed that under all that black fur (which was all _black_ black, not just black and dark brown like black leopards or jaguars), there looked to be some hint of paleness to his skin except for his eyebrows, which met in a definite V over his nose. Last but not least, there was a strange reddish tint to his lips that didn’t look like any animal I’d ever seen unless paint was involved.

One thing jumped out at me about him as we spoke, and honestly not in a good way. It came up as he was talking about what a dreary, isolated existence he led.

“You must know, friend, that I am the last of my family, and have suffered a great dearth of fellows of my own rank and learning with whom to keep company. It is, as you may well imagine, too late for me to pass on my line and title now, and all around one finds nothing but foolish, ignorant peasants; unlettered and unlearned.My only blood relation is my half-brother, and he is as dull of brain as any of them. Why, you’re probably the only mammal I’ve spoken to in years who knows anything of philosophy or could map any of the world beyond his own county.”

I took that to be high praise, given how much he obviously valued intelligent conversation. The part about a half-brother puzzled me, though, so I made a further inquiry.

“Yes, you met him; my coachmammal.” Seeing the face I must have made at this, he went on, “He is, alas, illegitimate and thus cannot share my rank or inheritance. Yet blood is blood, and very precious in these parts, so I gave him an occupation.”

“Surely that’s nothing to stop him from some education, though,” I reasoned.

“His temperament is far too inconstant for learning and deep conversation. He is wonderful at the ways of the world – almost a magician as it seems sometimes-” he chuckled a little at this and leaned closer, “-but you might as well try to teach a snake to read, write, and do sums. You will get nothing but bitten for your trouble.”

I nodded agreeably, but couldn’t help cringing a little. For one thing there was the way he flashed his eye teeth with this remark. Then there was his breath. I hadn’t noticed it before, but when he leaned in close it smelled terrible; very stale and musty like a closed-up room. I tried to be polite about it, but between the breath and the teeth I couldn’t hide a shudder. He seemed to notice and drew back, settling into his chair with a much mellower expression.

“Ah, you must forgive me,” he said placidly, with just a hint of disappointment. “I am afflicted with a very rare condition, my friend, and it makes others uneasy in my presence. It has been quite difficult to retain good friends this way, especially as hard as they are to find already, and I do get quite lonesome.”

I frowned, wondering how the effect of the condition could be that bad. If it was his breath, it hardly seemed enough to set off his charm and manners. Then again, his breath _was_ pretty bad.

“Maybe there’s someone in Zootopia who can help,” I offered. “We’ve got some of the best doctors in the world.”

His face broke into a wry sort of smile as if he thought I was making a joke, but he answered warmly, “All the more reason to prepare for my journey there with all due speed.” Then he looked toward the window in what I guess was the general direction of Zootopia.

I looked too, and saw the first rays of dawn. There seemed a strange stillness over everything, but as I listened I heard more wolves howling – ugh – in the valley below. I stifled a shudder, reminded right away of the terrors some hours before, but the Count's eyes gleamed.

“Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!” Seeing I didn’t share his taste in music, he rose. “Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter. But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and to-morrow you shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be away till the afternoon; so sleep well and dream well!” With a courteous bow, he opened for me himself the door to the octagonal room, and I entered my bedroom.

I am in bed now, barely able to keep my eyes open while I write this last instance (you’ll chide me for my sloppy pawwriting later, I’m sure). It’s funny, but all the dread I faced less than eight hours ago feels like it happened in some other lifetime. I feel like Christian must have at one of the houses on his journey, where everyone from the top down made him so welcome. This Dracula is odd, for sure, but I’ve never met a more courteous host in my life. I'm not one to wax poetic, but this castle is like an oasis of calm in a land of fears.

* * *

7 May.—Another late night and early morning, and I have to say though I hate early mornings I’ve never felt better. After the first late-night talk with Dracula, I slept till late in the day and got up when I felt like it. Too bad all business trips can’t be like this. When I had dressed myself I went into the room where we had supped. There was a cold but delicious breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot next to the fire – somewhat lower than the night before, but still warm and nice. Over my breakfast, I read a card on the table which read, "I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait for me.—D."

After I’d eaten, I looked for a bell to let the servants know I had finished, only to find none. “Strange,” I muttered. “Considering what a fine house he’s got you’d think there’d be more hired help.” The place was certainly grand enough; gold table service, and no skimping on the craftsmanship either.The curtains, chair upholstery, and the curtains on my bed are all very old, but in good condition. I saw something like them in Hampton Court, but there they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten. Also, as I looked around I noticed that there were no mirrors anywhere; not even a toilet glass on the table in my room. I had to get out the little portable mirror in my luggage just to make myself presentable.

“No servants, no mirrors, not even a sound except the wolves outside,” I murmured. The place felt luxurious, but very isolated. No wonder the Count gets lonely in a place like this.

Having finished breakfast (you could also say dinner, given I finished between five and six) I looked for something to read, not wanting to go wandering around without the Count’s permission.Nothing at all; no books, newspapers, or even writing materials. I tried a door I hadn’t opened before and found it locked, but the next one I tried was just the thing: a library.

I was worried at first that everything would be German, but the Count was obviously a fan of English literature. Whole shelves boasted English books, plus bound volumes of newspapers and magazines. A table was littered with magazines and newspapers, though none very recent, and the books covered every subject. Dracula had history, geography, politics, political economy, botany, geology, law—all relating to England and English life and customs and manners. He even had references like the London Directory, the "Red" and "Blue" books, Whitaker's Almanac, the Army and Navy Lists, and the Law List.

I was so engrossed I almost didn’t notice when the door opened and the Count walked in.

“Nicholas,” he greeted heartily, “good evening. I trust you slept well?”

“Best sleep ever,” I assured him.

“Excellent. I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that will interest you. These companions"—and he laid his paw on some of the books—"have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England, and to know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of the populace, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is. But alas! as yet I only know your tongue through books. To you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak."

This last remark threw me completely. "But, Count, you know and speak English just fine!"

He bowed gravely. "I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet I fear that I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I know the grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them."

“You speak excellently."

"Not so," he answered. "Well, I know that, did I move and speak in your London, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That is not enough for me. Here I am noble; I am _boyar._ The common people know me, and I am master. But a stranger in a strange land is no one. Mammals know him not, and to know not is to care not for. I am content if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he see me, or pause in his speaking if he hear my words, 'Ha, ha! a stranger!' I have been so long master that I would be master still—or at least that none other should be master of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my friend Benjamin Clawhauser, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in London. You shall, I trust, rest here with me awhile, so that by our talking I may learn the English intonation; and I would that you tell me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my speaking.”

“Oh, well, of course,” I replied. “And it’s ‘make an error,’ actually. Or ‘any error,’ or ‘errors.’

He smiled brightly, and I got the feeling he had dropped that on purpose to see if I’d check him. “Thank you. I am sorry that I had to be away so long to-day, but you will, I know, forgive one who has so many important affairs in hand."

I said it was fine, of course, and that I’d help any way I could. Then I asked if I might come into that room when I chose.

“Yes, certainly,” he agreed without hesitation. “You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are locked, where of course you will not wish to go. There is reason that all things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know with my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand."

I thought of the strange behavior on my way here, and the lack of servants and mirrors, and nodded.

"We are in Transylvania,” he continued, “and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange things there may be."

Well, he was sure right about that, and it opened up the endless questions I had about the trip to his castle. Since he was so eager to talk for the sake of talking, I questioned him about pretty much everything. A couple of times he sheered off the subject or acted like he didn’t understand me – though I was sure he did – but most of the time he was very open and direct. For example, there was when I asked about the coachmammal and the blue flames.

“Oh, that,” he said with a chuckle. “Well, in this country it is thought that on a certain night of the year – last night, in fact – a blue flame can be seen anyplace where treasure is hid. Undoubtedly there is treasure out there, for the ground out there was fought over for centuries. Why, hardly a foot of soil in all this region has not been enriched with mammals’ blood, be they patriots or invaders. Those were stirring days, I tell you, when the foreigners came in hoards and the people of this land went out to meet them—men and women, the aged and the children too—and waited their coming on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep destruction on them withtheir artificial avalanches. If the invaders did win, they found but precious little, for the best plunder had already been hidden under the friendly soil.”

I saw a problem right off the bat. “But how could it stay hidden all this time,” I asked, “when there’s such a sure way to find it if you’ll just look? Shouldn’t someone have dug it up long ago?”

“Right you are, friend, but your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those flames only appear on one night, when it is said that the forces of darkness hold unchecked power. On that night no mammal of this land will, if he can help it, stir without his doors. And, dear sir, even if he did he would not know what to do. My own half-brother, shrewd as he is in such affairs, would in daylight not be certain where to look for his markers. Even you would not, I dare be sworn, be able to find these places again?"

Well, that sure explained it. I wasn’t one to buy into supernatural explanations even for something as strange as the blue flames, but from what Dracula said about what his half-brother believed it was no wonder the tiger had gone around and around so many times. As for my doubts, I kept them to myself. “You’re right,” I admitted of the markers. “I wouldn’t know where to look any more than a dead mammal.”

He laughed heartily at this, and we drifted into other matters. Somehow I forgot to ask him about the lack of servants in his castle, but we talked about almost everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must confess that I had a difficult time translating Dracula’s appearance into animal terms, especially as I decided to make him an all-black tiger and Stoker’s depiction of him mentioned just how pale the Count was. Features like eyebrows, bushy hair, and a pronounced mustache (which, curiously, rarely seems to be shown on Dracula in artwork or movies) don’t carry over well into a uniformly furry creature either. To top it off, I had some difficulty deciding whether to put red lips on a tiger, since I’m pretty sure their lips are usually black. Incidentally, Nick’s remark about “paint” is what we today would call makeup.
> 
> One point which I omitted altogether was Stoker’s description of Dracula’s nose, which he noted as having an aquiline arch to it and unusually pronounced nostrils. Some commentators have suggested that this description had antisemitic overtones to it since many hostile caricatures of Jews exaggerate their noses (one can look up anti-Jewish propaganda art from the Middle East even today). I usually hesitate to censor a historical work over political correctness, but that’s one line I’m not willing to cross even for a classic.
> 
> Readers will also notice that I hinted at features in Dracula derived from other species. I don’t usually write stories involving hybrids – at least not those which one would not find in the real world – but the nature of this story and particularly Dracula’s talks about his ancestry later on made it necessary. I’m working by the “Mother Rule” (as one might call it) found in games like Skyrim and Pokemon, wherein if two races or similar enough species (say, two Pokemon of crossing “Egg Types”) crossbreed their offspring will mostly take after the mother with some traits from the father. Ergo, we can assume that Dracula’s mother was a tiger in this case.


	4. Stranger Things in Heaven and Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As his visit in the castle continues, Nick makes a shocking discovery and begins to think that Dracula may not be all he seems. Investigations lead to a shaking discovery... and a lot of locked doors.

“ **Deep into that darkness peering**

**Long I stood there, wondering, fearing,**

**Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.”**

_**The Raven,** _ **by Edgar Allan Poe**

After a lot of talk about more things than I can remember, and several pointers on his English like he’d asked, Dracula got down to brass tacks.

“Come,” he said at last, “tell me of London and of the house which you have procured for me.”

“Of course. I must have forgotten,” I answered, though I’d been wondering when we’d get to that. What I honestly had forgotten was the case of papers in my room, and while I was getting them I heard china rattling in the dining room. I expected to find servants clearing the table when I went back through, but all I saw was that the table had been cleared and the lamps lit. The matter was so strange that I almost forgot how late it was getting again. The Count’s hired help must be fast, but why so hasty?

The lamps were lit in the library too, and I found Dracula lying on the sofa reading an English Braydshaw’s Guide. When I came in he cleared the books and papers from the table and at once we got to business. The mammal had more questions than a kit on his first holiday, and peppered me about the house and its surroundings. He’d clearly done his research ahead of time, and I finally had to admit that he seemed to know the place better than I knew it myself.

He smiled that odd toothy smile. “Well, but my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I go there I shall be all alone, and my friend Wilde Nicholas – may, pardon me; the patronymic follows in your country – my friend _Nicholas Wilde_ will not be by my side to correct and aid me. He will be in Oxeter, miles away, working at papers of the law with my other friend, Peter Clawkins. So!”

I’ll say this for Dracula: he may talk a lot, but when he gets to business he really gets to it. It took almost no time to guide him through purchasing the estate at Purrfleet, get his signature on the right forms, and package it all with a letter ready to post to Mr. Clawkins. Then he started asking how I had found the place, arranged the purchase, and so on. I told him, and it was handy that I’d brought my notes from how thoroughly he asked about it. You helped me with the Kodiak pictures of the place and know how old and run-down it is, so you can probably guess I was a little uneasy as we went into the details. I thought such a rich mammal would want a nicer place, but funnily enough he seemed very satisfied.

“I am glad that it is old and big,” he said cheerfully. “I myself am of an old family, and to live in a new house would kill me. A house cannot be made habitable in a day, and after all, how few days go to make up a century. I rejoice also that there is a chapel of old times. Please take no offense at this, my friend, but we Transylvanian nobles love not to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead.”

I guess a lot of mammals would be insulted by that, but you know I’m used to such remarks and assured him I took no offense. Besides, why should I care where he or I lay after death? When you’re dead, you’re dead.

“Ah, good,” he approved when I’d reassured him. “I seek neither gaiety nor morth, nor the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling waters which please the young and lively. I am no longer young, and my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead, is not attuned to mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken. The shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements. I love the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I may.”

I was going to say that for someone so reclusive he seemed as jolly and sociable as anyone I’d ever met, but something stopped me. Somehow his expression seemed much more cheerful than you’d think saying things like that. At one point he even looked – though I’d guess it was just his odd face and teeth – a little sinister.

After a little more talk he excused himself and left, asking me to put my papers together. He was gone quite a while, so I started to have a look through the books he’d been reading. One was an atlas which had clearly seen some attention to England, for the pages opened to that almost without my opening it. I saw he’d circled some places: one right about where his new place would be on the east side of Zootopia, another in Oxeter, and a third one in Wallaby on the Yakshire coastline.

After more than an hour, the Count returned so quietly I almost jumped out of my fur when he spoke.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, the sound almost deafening in the quiet. “Still at your books? Good! But you must not work always. Come, I am informed that your supper is ready.”

He led me into the dining room to another good supper all set out. Again the Count excused himself, saying he had dined out. So as usual I filled myself on the dinner and his conversation, which well outlasted the meal.

The evening passed like the last one: chatting, asking, and answering questions about anything and everything, hour after hour. To be polite I didn’t comment on the late night, especially since I’d been fortified by sleeping late that morning. Still, I couldn’t quite shake off the chill of the early dawn hours, and it was almost a relief when at the crow of a cock, almost unnaturally shrill in the morning air, Dracula jumped up.

“Why, there is morning again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so long. You must make your conversation regarding my dear new country of England less interesting, my friend. I forget how the hours pass.”

With a courtly bow he saw me to my room, then departed quickly even for a cat. I can’t get over how he comes as goes. A ghost couldn’t be smoother, and you know I don’t give those kinds of compliments easily.

I opened the curtains in my room to get a look at the morning, but there wasn’t much to see. My window opened into the courtyard, so all I could see was the warm grey of early dawn. I drew the curtains closed again, and now I’ve told you how my day – or night – went. Maybe I should start journaling in the middle of the day instead. Goodnight.

8 May – Judy, if you ever read this I’m sorry I annoyed you at first by going into so much detail. I’m glad I did now, though. Maybe it’s just the late nights, but the longer I stay here the more I think there must be something very wrong about this place and the man who owns it.

Let me start with the morning. I only slept a few hours last night, but when I woke up I felt like I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I got up. I had hung my mirror next to the window and was just starting to tidy up when I felt a paw on my shoulder and the Count said, “Good morning.”

The surprise made me jump a little, and I guess I jabbed myself with my claws or something. I didn’t notice at the time, turning to greet him.

“Good morning, Count,” I said, somewhat startled. Something was bothering me, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. He asked how my rest was and I said it had been fine, then excused myself to finish grooming. When I turned back to the mirror I realized what was bothering me: the room behind me in the mirror was empty! I couldn’t have made a mistake; I could almost feel the Count standing behind me. I could hear him saying he meant to leave a note of absence and that my breakfast would be ready when I was. The whole space behind me should have reflected black with his gigantic ebon-clad body, but all I saw behind me was a room with no one else in it!

Somehow I noticed the warm moisture on my cheek and realized I’d broken the skin. I looked for a clean cloth and then turned to ask the Count if he had one – and for that matter how he managed the mirror trick. When he saw my face, though, something lit up in his eyes. I don’t know how to describe it, but for just a second he looked more like a devil than a mammal. To my surprise he darted for the cut, but as I stepped back his paw came into contact with something below my throat. He jerked back like a wasp had stung him, and an instant later he seemed to calm down so quickly I could hardly believe the fury had been there.

“Take care,” he said calmly and almost kindly. “Take care how you cut yourself. It is more dangerous than you think in this country.”

Before I could ask what the heck he was talking about, his eyes went past me to the mirror. “And this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief. Small wonder; it is a foul bauble of vanity. Away with it!”

To my surprise, he threw open the window and hurled the mirror out. I tried to grab for it, but it was too late. I could only watch as it tumbled to the courtyard below and shattered on the stone pavement. I turned to ask what the heck that was all about, but he was already on his way out the door. I had to use my watch case – which luckily is made of metal – to finish my grooming. I barely paid attention to that, though, trying to figure out what that had all been about. It almost seemed like a dream, but there was his reaction to the mirror. Then there was how he had grabbed at me and then changed his mind. I rubbed my chin and felt my paw bump against something, which was when I remembered the lady’s crucifix. Not sure why I did, I loosened the cord and stared at it. Was this little trinket why he’d yanked away like that? Only… why? What effect could a teensy little cross have on a tiger?

I didn’t know what to make of it, but you can guess well enough the chill I felt.

~

I didn’t find Dracula, of course, but I did find breakfast and ate alone as usual, still trying to figure the mammal out. I’ve never seen him eat or drink, and he has no reflection in a mirror. It made absolutely no sense, I thought, unless he was a ghost or something. Then I thought that if he was a ghost that would explain why the place was so run-down and empty. Maybe that was why I never saw his servants. I’m not superstitious. You know I’m not. But the theory that the place was haunted was starting to make more sense all the time. I tried to shake my head and tell myself I was imagining things. Dracula was some kind of illusionist, I told myself, like those parlor tricksters who put on seances; just a phony conjurer with a strange sense of humor. As for his reaction to the mirror, he was… well, he was just very weird, that was all. I didn’t know anything about his religion or scruples; maybe he just had this thing against mirrors. That wouldn’t stand up, though. How could someone get good enough to pull off a trick like that without using mirrors for practice? Besides, there was the way he’d reacted to the mirror… and the blood on my face. No, one way or another I was wrong; very wrong.

I got to thinking I should get out of there, or at least look around the place and see if I could find something that would help me make some sense of this whole situation. So I started poking around.

After trying a few locked doors, I found a room looking towards the south with a fantastic view. As far as a mammal could see, there was nothing but green tree tops, an odd deep chasm here and there, and now and then the silver thread of a river. Looking down I had to jump back when I saw that the castle stood on the edge of a cliff. A stone could have dropped from where I stood and not touched anything for a thousand feet or more.

As I continued to explore the castle, I started to get more and more anxious. Every room I found open just had windows to the outside, and most of them weren’t even open. Only the windows offered an exit, and unless I managed to sprout wings I could forget about that. I’ve been running around like that I don’t know how long, and I’ve only found out one thing: Whatever Dracula is, I’m trapped in here with him!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, everyone. I wanted to post this on my birthday with the other stories, but a file issue forced me to do a complete do-over. Hopefully the small improvements, such as making Nick sound more like Nick, were worth it. In any case, I tried to capture the sense of growing unease Nick would have felt following the mirror incident, which I think would shake up pretty much anyone, mounting to panic at the discovery of all those locked doors.
> 
> The Kodiak (an inevitable play on Kodak) which Nick mentions was quite a novelty at the time. Some commentators have noted that the book makes a fair amount of reference to what was then quite modern technology, giving the book elements of a struggle between science and sorcery as well as good and evil. This is underscored by what would, in those days, have been considered very legalistic mannerisms on Dracula’s part; not smoking (this was before we knew just how unhealthy it could be, so think of it as if he were a strict technophobe), not drinking even in moderation, and speaking so furiously against any form of vanity. Of course, the fact that the hypocrisy of it all, using these lofty attitudes to conceal such an inhuman nature, makes him all the more villainous once the mask is off. Going deeper still it’s a rather interesting layer of character that one who was basically a walking blasphemy would be so ethically strict, which is perhaps one of Dracula’s less appreciated qualities. At any rate, I’ve yet to see this aspect of him conveyed in any other context, so I wanted to point it out here.
> 
> I’m also kicking myself for an oversight I noted as I was working on this chapter. In Victorian England, even close friends rarely called one another by their first names, let alone by a nickname as glib as “Carrots.” Even Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, who risked their lives for one another on many occasions, rarely if ever called one another by any name but their surnames. WANMWAD pointed this out in “the Unlikely Heir,” but being careless I forgot about it until now. I’ll have to see if I can get around to fixing it in the previous chapters.
> 
> In any case, thanks for reading, and have a good one! I'm still working on bringing this site up to speed with fanfiction.net, but if you don't feel like waiting pop over there (same username, though I think it has a space instead of a _) and check out the fics I updated for my birthday. They are:
> 
> Fox Dens and Rabbit Trails: Rendez-Bleu  
> OC Albums: Taelia  
> Prank War Collaboration  
> Road Rovers Rebooted 02: Out of the Blue
> 
> Last but not least, I'm not sure if I'll be able to post this story on DA, but by all means pop over there and check out an art piece I recently posted, "Movie Night." Happy birthday!


	5. Growing Unease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Nick discovers his entrapment in the castle, Dracula continues to weave his tangled web around the fox. Will Nick discover this mysterious person's secret, and will he do so in time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, after months of inactivity I’m finally back in business. It’s been a heck of a time what with Covid and all, and you’d think I’d have gotten more done, but better late than never.
> 
> One thing I did manage to accomplish was a viewing of the 1931 Dracula film starring Bela Lugosi, which continues to define the look and character of the Count to this day. I’ve got to say before we get started that Lugosi’s performance is admirably chilling and on-point, especially given the other limitations the film had such as special effects (showing the Count’s destruction on screen, for example, would have meant actually killing someone). One other thing that impressed me was how fluidly they wove Renfield into the story by casting him as the real estate agent who unwittingly started Dracula’s campaign of terror. If I had this to do over again I’d probably do the same, but like poor Nick once we’re in we’re in. Let’s see if he and I can both get through our little traps, hm?

**Then, methought, the air grew denser,**

**Perfumed from an unseen censer,**

**Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.**

“ **Wretch!” I cried. “Thy god hath lent thee**

**By these angels He hath sent thee**

**Respite; respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore.**

**Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe**

**And forget thy lost Lenore!**

**Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”**

_**The Raven** _ **by Edgar Allen Poe**

NICK WILDE'S JOURNAL—continued in shorthand

  
  


When I realized what was happening I started running all over the place, trying every door and window I could find. I think I must have gone into a blind panic, because I can’t remember most of it except for a blur of empty rooms. After a while I just collapsed, helpless and scared as all get-out. Then I got to thinking about what to do, and I’m still at it. I don’t know what I can do

One thing’s obvious enough: I can’t tell the Count what I’ve figured out. If he trapped me either (and who else is there?), he obviously has his own reasons for doing it. I almost want to ask anyway in case maybe this is all just some mistake, but no. I know deep in my gut it’s not safe. If I trust him with all the facts he’ll only try to trick me further, or do something worse. I can’t get the mirror out of my mind; the way he just wasn’t in it. Who does that, and how?

No, no, back on the plan, I’ll have to keep my mouth shut and pretend to be fine. Maybe the mirror thing made me paranoid and it’s just some kind of joke, but if it’s a joke it’s a pretty darn twisted one. If not… well, if this is as bad as it looks the last thing I can afford to do is panic.

I’d just gotten that far figuring things out when I heard the door close downstairs and knew the Count was back. He didn’t come in through the library, so I slipped down and saw him in my room making the bed. What kind of mammal does that at his rank? I sneaked back to the library and made as if I’d been reading the whole time, but it was hard to focus on acting. If Dracula was making the bed himself, then he must not really have any servants. Stoking the fires, setting the tables, cooking…

Suddenly a cold chill came over me. What about the coachmammal? Was he a creature like the Count, or the Count himself? I guessed Dracula must have been driving the coach, and holding sway over the savage wolves out there. What kind of animal – or what kind of ghost – was my jailer and warden? I thought then of the people in Batstritz and on the coach and how afraid they had been hearing my plans. My paw strayed to the crucifix hung around my neck, and I found myself thanking God for the old doe who put it there. You know I always had a dim view of crucifixes and agreed with your mother that they were little better than idols, but this one comforted me a bit.

After a while I got to trying to make some semblance of a plan. Maybe… maybe somehow I could coax the Count into dropping some information that would help me sort it out. I don’t have to tell you I dread the thought of talking to him again. I’d almost rather throw myself out the window over the cliff this second than sit with him tonight, but I have to get out of here, and I need information. I’ll have to be sly about it, but if I can get the conversation on him tonight maybe I can find out something useful. I just hope I can do it without arresting his suspicions.

God, help me get out of here!

Midnight – My talk with the Count was long in every sense of the word. It seemed like a dozen nights I sat up with him as, with a little probing, he talked on about himself and his ancestors. At least, he says it was his ancestors; who knows how long ago he really lived or how many of the battles he had been around to see and fight in? I’ll never forget the way he said it himself, talking about his link to the Counts of the past: “I am all Draculas, and all Draculas are myself.”

I have to admit he was a darn good storyteller; walking around, pulling at his whiskers, and grabbing things at random as if he would crush them with his bare paws like so many eggs. If I hadn’t been so busy not freaking out just being around him, I might have loved the storytime. As it was I barely remembered to work with him on his English. He talked about his ancestors, said to include the Ugric berserkers of Iceland, the Huns of the Boarient, witches of Scythia, and even (I’m shaking to write this) desert demons according to superstition. His people, mixed from all these warriors and worse, had guarded the Turkish border for ages, fighting to beat them even on their own ground, even when the Turks bribed a Dracula to sell his people out and make them slaves. He scoffs at “mushroom growths” like the Hapsburgs and Roamanoffs, and seems to relish violence. “Blood is too precious a thin in these days of dishonourable peace,” he says, “and the glories of the great races are as a tale that is told.”

What does it all mean anyway? Was the whole “I am all Draculas” some line meant to say that he was really all those Draculas in the past, just using different names? That would mean he was… oh, mammal, hundreds of years old! He could be that old if he’s some kind of ghost, but how do you stop a spirit?

I almost cried with relief when morning came and our talk broke off with a cock’s crow. I feel like I’m trapped in some twisted take on Arambian Nights, or talking to the ghost of Hamlet’s father. But that gives me a thought, and it might just mean a chance. Next time I sit up with the Count, I must take notes on what he says. I’ll tell him you’d be interested in writing a story about this place, and about his ancestors. It’s enough up your alley, and if there’s one thing I do know about him it’s that he loves attention.

May 12 – For someone who keeps his guests locked up, the Count was as polite as you could ask tonight. He gladly took to the idea of his family’s history playing into one of your books, and I spent two hours interviewing the mammal. I guess he must have done this before when he was alive, because this time he didn’t get nearly as animated or grand. He answered very calmly, evenly, and quietly, until I almost felt myself going to sleep. I can’t help thinking he’d make a great stage actor, with the way he manages so many moods so naturally.

While we were talking like that, I started rethinking my idea of him. Maybe Dracula’s not so bad after all. If he’s some kind of ghost he must be short on company, and who wouldn’t hold a captive audience in that case? Perhaps he’s felt stuck where he is for who-knows-how-long the same way I did today. At any rate he’s done nothing to hurt me, and even if he did I couldn’t gain anything by panicking.

Somewhere during the interview he gave an apologetic cough. “Forgive me, good friend, but I must now turn our tet-a-tet to other matters. I have questions of business which I require answered, and there is no time to delay.”

Of course I couldn’t say no to that, so after correcting his small mistake – at which he smiled – I put myself at his service answering – I have to say – a pretty strange string of questions. He started by asking if a mammal in England might have more than one solicitor seeing to his business. I explained he could have a dozen if he really wanted them, but if he had them all doing the same transaction they’d just get in each other’s way and cost him more money.

He nodded understandingly. “Of course, of course. Too many cooks spoil the broth. Would it be any trouble, though, to have – oh, say, one to attend to banking and another to shipping? Perchance there would be need of local help far from my banker.”

Maybe I was still drowsy from his delivery on his family’s history, because I wasn’t sure I understood him and had to ask him to explain more thoroughly.

“I shall illustrate. I enlisted your soliciting office, from under the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, far from London, to buy for me a place at London. Good! Now here let me say frankly, lest you should think it strange that I have sought the services of one so far off from London instead of some one resident there, that my motive was that no local interest might be served save my wish only; and as one of London residence might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I went thus afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my interest. Now, suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to Newcastle, or Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it not be that it could with more ease be done by consigning to one in these ports?”

I explained that it would be easier, but – as you know – we solicitors have a system so any one of us can get local jobs done locally just about anywhere. The client can just tell us what to do and leave the rest to us without a problem.

“But I could do the same myself?” he inquired in a pointed manner.

There was something about this starting to make me uneasy, and it increased as I allowed that businessmen often did this kind of thing when they didn’t want all their business known by someone else. I couldn’t help thinking of that shrew I’d worked with a few years back; the really shady one who came along and then just dropped off the face of the planet.

“Good!” said he when I told him what he wanted to know, and for the next few hours we talked papers; means of making consignments, forms to be gone through, and other ‘difficulties which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded against.’ I have to say he’d make a darn good solicitor himself, because he seemed to think of everything and know my answers almost before I said them. For someone who had never been in England and didn’t do much business, he seemed downright brilliant.

When he had finished satisfying his interest, he abruptly changed the subject.

“Have you written home to your offices, or anyone else?”

I felt an ounce of distrust of the Count slipping back into my thoughts as I admitted I hadn’t yet seen an opportunity to send any letters.

“Then write now, my young friend,” he answered heartily, patting my back with a heavy paw. “Write to whom you wish, and say if you please that you will stay with me until a month from now.”

My wariness turned cold as I remembered again that helplessness I’d felt running around the locked-up castle. “You want me to stay that long?”

“I desire it much. Nay, I will take no refusal,” he answered coldly. “When I commissioned that you should come here, it was understood that my needs be paramount. I have not stinted. Is it not so?”

Yes, this Count definitely reminded me of that old shrew, but I doubted I’d be rid of him as easily as that time. I couldn’t do anything but nod and bow. He had this air about him that reminded me I was a prisoner, and whether I went along willingly or not I had the same amount of choice.

The Count saw he’d won, and pressed his advantage as smoothly and irresistibly as always.

“Pray, keep your letters brief and to business. Good post is hard to find in this country, you know.” He handed me three sheets of note paper and three envelopes, and as I looked from them to him I noticed his quiet smile with sharp canines peeking over the red underlip. “It will doubtless please your friends to know that you are well, and that you look forward to getting home to them. Is it not so?”

I understood his point as if he’d said it out loud, and had to resist the urge to shudder. Whatever I wrote would be as open to his inspection in those thin envelopes as if I handed him the open letters. I decided I’d have to write only formal notes for now, with just enough pleasantries to make them convincing, and write everything else home in secret. Shorthand would be best, assuming the Count hadn’t read up on that too. I wrote two letters – one to Peter Clawkins and one to you – and sat quietly, reading a book to distract myself while the Count wrote several notes of his own, checking some books as he did. Then he took my two letters, put them with his own, and then stepped out to do something.

The instant the door was closed I leaned over and looked at the letters, which were face-down on the table. I figured anything I could find might be useful, and I was really backed into a corner now.

One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The Crescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna; the third was to Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth, bankers, Buda-Pesth. Before I could look further I saw the door-handle move, and had just enough time to put things back before the Count entered the room with still another letter.

“Is something the matter?” he asked when he saw me near the desk.

My mind raced. “My friend I told you about,” I answered, trying to sound normal. “The one who might want to write about your family. I wanted to make sure I told her to expect details when I get home.”

This seemed to satisfy the Count, for he smiled a bit as he took of the letters, sealed, and stamped them carefully before turning back to me.

“I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private this evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish.”

I don’t think I need to tell you what I wished most at the moment, but I doubted I’d get it.

At the door he turned, and after a moment's pause said:—

“Let me advise you, my dear young friend—nay, let me warn you with all seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then…”

He motioned as if he were washing his paws, which I took to be a pretty clear clue of what I could expect. I only wondered whether any dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and mystery which seemed closing around me.

Later. – I still think that, but at least I’ve taken some precautions. I’ve put the crucifix over the head of my bed and plan to leave it there indefinitely. If he’s not around I can, at least, sleep safely. Hopefully dreamlessly to; being awake around here is bad enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original novel, Jonathan Harker wondered about the crucifix’s effect on Dracula and whether it was somehow effective in its own right or if it was some kind of conduit relaying the woman’s good wishes for him. I didn’t really see Nick getting that philosophical, so I’ll be tapping that question later in the story. I did, however, keep the note about him having considered crucifixes idolatrous. While this is not a view I share (at least not in all cases, though some churches do take them too far in my book), it was a fairly common view in Victorian England. Some churches from the Reformation, in a strong aversion to the grandiose iconography and pageantry of Catholic and other such churches, took to eschewing even images of Jesus Himself. I myself have a dim view of the use of crosses as good luck charms in vampire stories, but the gift from the peasant woman and Dracula’s reaction to it were too iconic and the alternatives too perishable for a substitute to make sense.


End file.
